


First Aid

by Hope



Series: 12 Days of Cliché [1]
Category: Torchwood
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kink, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:55:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hope/pseuds/Hope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First aid: the provision of initial care for an illness or injury, administered until professional medical help is available. (Set throughout Season 1; Small Worlds, Countrycide, Out of Time.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Aid

**Author's Note:**

> **Bonus: Cupidsbow has made [](http:)an accompanying vid of awesome for this piece.**
> 
> For [](http:)12 Days of Cliché. Thank you to alpha readers Cupidsbow &amp; Rexluscus, and beta of awesome James.

"I'm sorry, sir," the man in the booth says. "If you don't have an official pass, the standard rate applies."

"We're _guests of the mayor_," Jack says for the fourth time, this time through his teeth. Not that Torchwood can't afford parking. But he's committed himself to being insulted now; it's the principle of the thing. If he were on his own, he might relinquish the point with some underhanded flirting, but he feels compelled to stick to his guns, this time.

Over a matter of six quid for parking. Possibly not one of his most strategically chosen battles.

"You need to show me an official pass, sir," the clerk says again. "Otherwise—"

"Here." Ianto holds his hand out over Jack's lap and Jack opens his own hand automatically; Ianto drops a column of coins into it, the solid metal warmed to Ianto's body temperature.

Jack smacks them into the clerk's scratched plastic coin tray with a clatter and a scowl. The SUV jerks forward as Jack stamps on the accelerator, just clearing the boom gate as it rises. He watches the gate's spindly arm wobble in the wake of their passage in the rear view, ignoring the blare of horns in his blind spot as he pulls out of the parking garage and into traffic.

They jolt to a halt again at a red light within half a block; it's only when they're moving again and Jack ostensibly doesn't need to take his eyes off traffic that he clears his throat to speak. "I'm surprised you didn't make me request a receipt."

He sees Ianto shrug―or maybe just twitch―out the corner of his eye. Ianto's still looking forward when Jack glances over and back at traffic, but when he looks again, Ianto holds up his wallet in explanation. "Sorry to disappoint," he says.

It wasn't all that long ago that the phrase would have been delivered laced with sarcasm. Jack frowns.

"I'll reimburse you," he says. "You can say you lost the receipt, on the form."

Ianto's silent again. "Very well, sir," he says, eyes fixed on an amber traffic light ahead of them.

Jack's phone vibrates in his pocket just as the light turns green again, and he grunts as he struggles to shift into gear and extract it at the same time. Ianto catches the device as Jack tosses it to him blindly, turning it the right way up before his thumbs start manipulating the keys.

"It's Tosh," Ianto says at length. "Rift alert, looks like an artifact." The keys make rapid tapping sounds as he scrolls. "Near Queen Street Station."

Jack heaves a deep breath, ignoring the further sounds of disgruntled traffic as he swings the SUV in a U-turn. They're closer to it than the team at the Hub is, sure, but not even having seen the message he's sure it was not much more than perfunctory. Hell, it was a _text message_.

It's cruel damn irony that the only person who's presently on speaking terms with him is _Ianto_, who's turned in a manner of weeks from a pretty purveyor of snark to a pitiful purveyor of… Well, whatever Jack wants, really. Or rather whatever he _asks_ for, and for that reason above all the others he makes sure to keep what he asks for strictly professional.

He'd probably think it's another front if Ianto's old mode of operation hadn't become so painfully obvious on reflection. He'd pegged Jack from the first as someone to keep on his toes with charming rejection, a constant flirtation that caught Jack's attention, coupled with a wry aloofness to keep him in check. The challenge was a perfect diversion. In contrast, an Ianto who's desperate to appease hides nothing.

The cheap plastic buzz of the phone vibrating sounds again. "She's sending the co-ordinates to the SUV now," Ianto reports after another moment of key-pressing.

The modified GPS on the dash directs them to a narrow shop front with a bright red Coca-Cola awning; a lunch bar, glass grim and greasy from traffic residue. Cigarette butts congregate on the gritty pavement close to the foot of the concertinaed security gate, and the stainless steel trays displayed in the window are empty of all but a couple of beet-stained bread rolls, sweating pink in plastic wrap.

There's no sign of anything amiss. Jack checks the presence of his gun, strapped to his side, then presses the fob and tosses the car keys to Ianto. Belatedly, Jack looks over to him. "Ready to check this out?"

Ianto's expression is refreshingly determined, not blank and not merely acquiescent; certainly not trepidatious. He meets Jack's eyes, and for the first time all afternoon Jack feels a swell of anticipation. "Yes, sir."

The tinkle of a bell on the door announces their presence, and a tired-looking man wearing a discoloured tee-shirt and cheap plastic gloves fails to muster a smile at the prospect of new customers.

"Health inspection," Ianto says before Jack can say anything. The man behind the counter moves his jaw like he's chewing something distasteful, then tips his head resignedly toward the doorway behind the counter.

Jack's already striding towards it. "See," he says over his shoulder. "Told you that suit is one that commands respect."

He doesn't have a chance to think about just _when_ it was he last told Ianto that, because the next thing he's aware of is feeling disconcertingly vertiginous. He tries to suck in a breath but can't until the pressure on his nose abates, and then he inhales hard enough to make his chest feel like its been impaled on a railroad spike. A comparison made from experience.

"Thank god," Jack hears, and his eyes come open, responding sluggishly to the mental command. Nicotine-stained ceiling tiles and the bottom edge of a stainless steel bench come into focus, and then Ianto. Ianto looks different from below; there's something odd about his face. Jack realises it's because his features are wrought deep with an expression. Ianto looks like he's _feeling_ something.

_Are you all right?_ Jack tries to say, but it doesn't come out right, doesn't come out at _all_; just a strangled sound that drops a hook down his burning windpipe and into his lungs. They feel _pulverised_, and that isn't right; if he died then he shouldn't be feeling lingering disorientation and pain like this. He blinks rapidly, sucks another sandpaper-coated breath into his lungs.

"I didn't die," he croaks in amazement.

Ianto's eyes close briefly. "Good to see your powers of observation weren't damaged when you were thrown across the room, sir."

Before Jack can respond, Owen's voice sounds tinnily from somewhere near Jack's left ear. "Oi, Teaboy, can I assume you've stopped basic life support, then?"

Ianto leans over again to grab the phone, then back and mostly out of Jack's line of vision. Jack tries to roll over in order to keep him in sight; but winces at the pain the movement causes, clawing a cough up his throat. His limbs are sluggish; chest tender when he rubs his hand against it.

"He's come around," Ianto says into the phone, dialing it off speaker and holding it to his ear.

Jack wets his lips, just concentrates on breathing, though the bands of pain around his ribcage don't make it very easy. His mouth tastes… odd. Different. If he was thrown against the wall he might have bit his tongue on impact, but it's a different taste than that.

Ianto's put the phone away. His expression is sombre, his own chest heaving as if from exertion. "Can you stand?"

The shop attendant is standing outside the kitchen door, shuffling back against the drinks fridge when they emerge, Ianto stooping under the weight of Jack's arm. "The department will send you a report," Ianto informs him calmly, and the bell tinkles an alarmed retort as they stumble back through the door.

When they get to the car, Ianto assists Jack into the front seat. A small containment unit from the boot receives the artifact from Ianto's pocket; apparently it'd burnt out shortly after Jack touched it. Jack doesn't even remember doing so.

Ianto readjusts the mirrors minutely before checking traffic, indicating, and pulling into the road. Jack holds the containment unit in his lap, head bent down to peer through the bullet-proof glass while he keeps his aching back as straight as possible against the support of the car seat. He recognises it, now; it must have already been damaged before it burnt out, otherwise he never would have touched it. Although, that isn't necessarily true; he can't pretend his method isn't consistently _hands on_ above _proceeding with caution_.

And on that thought.

"You saved my life," Jack says, not entirely intentionally. From the passenger seat he's free to watch Ianto's reaction; Ianto's lips are pressed together in a frown, tension tightening around his eyes. Of course, Ianto doesn't know what Jack knows, so how else would he read Jack's tone of mild astonishment?

_One day and I'll have the chance to save you, and I'll watch you suffer and die_, Ianto's voice whispers in his head; Jack remembers the vicious words by rote, but this time he holds them close in blooming delight, instead of punishment.

"What is it?" Ianto asks roughly, choosing to ignore Jack's statement, tilting his head toward the containment unit.

"A mine," Jack says, looking away from him and down at the dead device again. "A tool of war. Where did you learn how to do that?"

He's not willing to let it go, now, doesn't want it to just slip into the massive back-catalogue of _things they don't talk about_. Ianto saved his life. Ianto _saved his life._

"CPR?" Ianto glances at him in uncertain confusion.

"The reason it feels like my chest's been stepped on by a Trasticophanian madame?"

His words only make Ianto's frown intensify, which in turn increases Jack's urge to reach out, to _grab_ him, to transfer over some of the bubbling awe in Jack's tender chest. He ruthlessly forces it down; Ianto's hands are white on the wheel, jaw clenched, unhappiness warring with guilt over his features. _Don't you dare apologise,_ Jack wills silently, for his own sake more than Ianto's pride.

"Torchwood One," Ianto says at length, and the name sparks bits of Jack's memory like a nightmare that's just been given the right recall to emerge. "They paid for a course. I was the first aid officer for our department." He meets Jack's eyes at last, the connection immediately obscured as they pull into the Hub's underground parking facilities, casting them in shadow. "Not that it did me much good."

The faint trace of black humour in Ianto's tone steals the last wisp of breath from Jack's pained chest, but before he can respond the car's stopped, and Owen's standing nearby looking decidedly grumpy. Then Ianto's got out of the car, and it's too late.

* * *

Ianto lets him in with a grim smile and a nod toward the coat hooks next to the door, then immediately leaves Jack to it, turning and walking back into the flat. Jack eyes him calculatingly while shrugging out of his coat; Ianto's gait is still stiff, though he's not limping, and he looks tired, but the bruises creeping up his throat are already fading.

Jack follows into the small kitchen where Ianto's still got his back to him, fiddling with something on the counter. The red-and-white tee-shirt Ianto's wearing clashes horribly with the burnt orange formica cupboard surfaces, doing its best to make Jack look away, and the bubbled linoleum creaks under his feet as he sets them wide, leans back against the opposite bench.

"I suppose I don't need to ask if you want coffee," Ianto says, still not turning around.

"Please."

Ianto sets the mug on the bench approximately a foot from Jack's hip, then retreats again, backing into the corner next to the sink. He doesn't lean back as such―Jack sees him begin to, only to sway forward again with a wince of discomfort―and holds his own cup up to his face, double handed in front of his mouth, gaze fixed on its rim.

The caffeinated armour might be what makes Jack decide Ianto's ready to talk about it. He's certainly giving off less vulnerability vibes than the past couple of days Jack's dropped by; being checked up on and accepting delivery of painkillers seemed to be the most strenuous Ianto was up for.

Not that Jack's planning anything particularly strenuous. He sips from the mug and huffs appreciatively, forcing the waft of steam from the surface of the liquid to dampen his upper lip.

"How are you, Ianto?" He wraps his free hand around the mug in a mirror of Ianto's grip on his own, holding it prayer-like in front of his chest.

"Ready to be back at the Hub," Ianto says, looking away from his coffee to cast his eyes sideways to the sink. Then briefly up to meet Jack's, and down again. "Sir."

"Tomorrow," Jack promises. Hesitates. "Tosh and I miss having you around. Not to mention Myfanwy…"

Ianto's stolid gaze into his drink turns into a frown; Jack reviews his sentence, seeking the cause. He doesn't think it's because he judiciously left Owen out of that roll call, and Ianto knows Gwen's still on sick leave, same as him.

"Tosh is alive because of you, you know," he hazards. "You saved her life."

Ianto closes his eyes and twitches his head sideways briefly, accompanying the tiny movement with an incredulous puff of air out his nose. He swallows, works his mouth, doesn't meet Jack's eyes. "I hardly think _that's_ the case, sir," he says at length, and then with more bitterness than Jack thinks is deserved, "I couldn't even save my own."

Ianto lifts the mug to his lips again, but Jack suspects it's more to obscure his face than anything else. Ianto's voice is a little louder when he lowers the drink again; caffeinated courage. "I was hardly the hero of the day."

Jack lets the silence sit a little longer after that; struggling to find response. _Taking credit_ is hardly appropriate at this juncture, especially as he'd hardly felt heroic at the time; just sickened, and terrified, and _angry_. Far from noble.

The truth is, Jack's _not good_ at this. He doesn't know what to say to Ianto. Ordinarily, he _wouldn't_ say anything, especially after that not-so-subtle inference; he hasn't really thought about it before but on reflection, it isn't really his _job_ to pander to and reassure his staff. The strength of his position lies in his distance; their idolisation. It's not up to him to be noble. It's just up to them to think he is.

"You saved my life," Jack says at length, and that makes Ianto look up at last, makes him meet Jack's eyes. The contact just serves to make Jack more hesitant, though; this thing has become yet another thing they don't talk about, but one Jack still holds close. Not one he tries to forget, like so many others. Speaking of it now gives Ianto the power to taint it, yank it back somehow. Perhaps only by declaring its lack of importance, through forgetfulness or otherwise.

But maybe Jack's anxiety is unfounded; because Ianto looks like he knows exactly what Jack's talking about, and it's nothing to do with cannibals.

"You'll never let me forget that, will you," Ianto says, as if Jack reminds him of it every day. Perhaps, Jack realises with a faint thrill, Ianto _is_ reminded of it every day. Jack wants to grin, but he suppresses it by reminding himself that the soft note in Ianto's tone is more likely humour than genuine tenderness; wouldn't want to over-react.

"It occupies my every waking thought," Jack smirks. "You: an officer."

Ianto shakes his head, drinks again; now his eyes are fixed on Jack's shoes, at least.

"Did you get to wear a hat? An armband? Perhaps a cape?"

Ianto's eyes meet his again, head at a sardonic tilt. "No, but I was responsible for a little kit."

"Just a little one?" Jack raises his eyebrows suggestively. This, now, is familiar ground. He's good at this.

In response, Ianto sets his mug on the bench and holds his finger up, indicating Jack wait a moment. He opens the door of the cupboard above the microwave and withdraws a transparent plastic box with a red handle. His face twists in discomfort briefly as he lowers his arms again, and he breathes out a long, controlled sigh before he sets it on the counter with a minute flourish.

"You kept it?"

Ianto gives him the _you idiot_ look, one that Jack hadn't actually realised he'd been missing until then. "This isn't the same one," Ianto explains with exaggerated patience.

"You have a lot of accidents, then?"

Ianto shrugs. "Rather be safe than sorry."

Jack crosses his arms over his chest and eyes the kit, the cupboard it came from, the microwave. "So what happens if the microwave's been taken over by some kind of aggressive alien threat and you can't get to it?"

Ianto looks at him. "Then I close the microwave door and throw the whole thing out the window," he deadpans.

Jack smirks. "Well, I suppose that only leaves one more question."

Ianto lifts an eyebrow; more dubious than sardonic, though his mouth twists with an edge of amusement.

"Aren't you going to show me what else you can do?"

Ianto is still for a moment, eyes searching Jack's face, though he's still half-smiling; like Jack is a curiosity Ianto's yet to figure out. His fists clench and open; then he's snapping open the kit's clasps and unpacking small, plastic-wrapped packages onto the bench top. When he turns back again he's holding a roll of elastic bandage in his hand. Tossing it up and catching it again a couple of times, he looks at Jack speculatively.

"Show me where it hurts, sir," he says with an utterly straight face.

Jack tilts his head back and laughs, a brief chuckle of delight. Ianto's stepped closer to him again, teeth in his lip denting the edge of his hesitant smile. Jack extends his hand, palm-down.

Ianto examines Jack's knuckles without touching; the torn skin has scabbed over but the discolouration of bruising still testifies the injury's lingering tenderness.

"Hold still, please," Ianto murmurs, then presses the edge of the bandage against the webbing of Jack's thumb, just below the knuckle of his index finger, and starts wrapping it around Jack's hand.

It hurts at first, pressure on the healing bruises startling a response from the battered nerves, but after a few circuits of the bandage it settles into comfortableness; the warmth of cover and consistent pressure soothing the jangle of healing. Ianto's head is bowed before him, his concentration absolute; his hair is unbrushed and free of product, fluffing out and obscuring Jack's foreshortened view of Ianto's face, snub nose and pursed lip the most obvious features at this angle.

Jack's fingers curl in a loose hook that Ianto supports his hand with, otherwise barely manipulating movement as he binds around Jack's wrist and part-way up his forearm; and in far too short a length of time Ianto's finished, tucking the edge of the bandage under to fasten it.

"There," he says, looking up into Jack's face, then down again. Jack's fingers are still resting on the curve of his hand; he lifts one of Jack's fingertips, presses down on the nail with his thumb and watches the colour flood back into it. "Not too tight?"

Jack resists the urge to flex his fingers, even finds he's breathing shallower, as if not to make any sudden movements. Ianto's hand is warm under his; he can feel his own fingers tingling with the restricted blood flow. "It's perfect," he says truthfully; the constraint feels like if he unwound it, his flesh and bones would fall to the floor in a gory lack of restraint.

Ianto smiles back into Jack's face, and his fingers fiddle with the edges of the bandage, as if checking it's properly tucked in.

"Surely that's not all they taught you?" Jack challenges, sensing that Ianto's stalling the end of… whatever this is.

Ianto lowers Jack's hand, relinquishing his careful hold, and Jack's mouth fills with further entreaties, a flood of possibilities of _the right thing to say_ to stop this moment severing, but Ianto's just reaching for another plastic packet. He rips it open; another bandage.

"All right," he says, looking at Jack's body critically, and, Jack hopes, a little speculatively. "Let's say you need… a splint." He reaches for Jack's bandaged hand again, but instead of gripping it, he trails his fingertips over the elasticised fabric, and then onto Jack's skin. Jack swallows, grateful for having the uninformed foresight of rolling up his shirtsleeves before he even arrived, and keeping silent as the light touch slides up the inside of his forearm, stopping at the crook of his elbow. Ianto's fingertips brush minutely but unmistakably deliberate against the paper-thin skin, the sensation making Jack's heartbeat thud painfully at the base of his throat.

Ianto withdraws again, this time reaching into a drawer and coming back with a wooden spoon. He holds it up to Jack, as if in question.

Jack grins. "By all means, demonstrate away."

Ianto needs to do more manipulation this time to get Jack's arm in the right position, his grip firm above Jack's elbow as he holds the arm away from Jack's body. The wood of the spoon is rough with lack of use, fine splinters prickling Jack's skin, and by the time Ianto's finished with the bandage Jack's lack of movement isn't an affect; the restraint clothes most of his right arm and movement is limited to his shoulder joint and fingers. Heat spreads from the bound limb through to the rest of his body, sparked by Ianto's touch and insulated by the bandages.

"Impressive," Jack grins when Ianto steps back to admire his handiwork, and he's not mistaking the hint of self-satisfaction that quirks Ianto's mouth in return. "But—" Ianto raises an eyebrow and Jack lifts his left arm, wiggling his fingers _hello_.

"Of course, sir," Ianto says, and picks up another plastic-wrapped packet from the kit. "I haven't showed you my sling skills, yet."

"Sling 'em at me," Jack encourages, and is rewarded with a faintly pitying look.

The packet yields a massive linen triangle. Ianto folds it then pauses, steps back; he crosses his arm over his chest to rest his hand palm-flat against the opposite shoulder, then steps forward again when Jack mimics the pose.

The bandage is converted to a sling with smooth, self-assured gestures; guiding it to cradle Jack's forearm, twisting to cup his elbow, then Ianto is stepping closer yet to fasten it at Jack's shoulder. The fabric tugs hairs at the back of Jack's neck and Ianto radiates heat against his front; Ianto's chest presses against the immobilised arm and Ianto's breath whispers into the valley between Jack's collar and his neck.

Ianto fiddles with the knot longer than strictly necessary, keeping his eyes fixed on it; Jack watches the slant of his eyelashes and tries not to move.

"If we were in the countryside," Ianto says. "I'd do this as well." He tears open another packet, flicks loose another massive triangular bandage, then reaches around behind Jack and draws the fabric to the front again, tying it firmly around Jack's chest and be-slinged arm, securing it against his torso.

Jack breathes, and it pushes his folded arm against Ianto's chest. "Why is that?" he says softly, eyes fixed on Ianto's, body restrained but trying to keep him close with his gaze instead.

"We'd probably have to walk back to the car," Ianto says, hand smoothing the securing bandage down one last time, then reaching up again to fiddle with the knot of the sling again. "You'd want to keep it immobilised." His hand slips from the knot to Jack's shoulder, fingers rubbing over the tendon, then warm palm rolling over the ball of it. "Could be a shoulder injury."

His eyes stay fixed on his handiwork as he traces the edge of the sling, behind Jack's neck, along the skin of his nape, and then he scratches his fingers up into Jack's hair. Jack tilts his head back into the touch, the movement angling his jaw open. His mouth parts, and Ianto splays his fingers up to the bottom of Jack's skull and kisses Jack's lower lip.

Jack wants to say something encouraging and appropriate, like, _You can administer another one of those any time, nurse,_ but Ianto's eyes are wide and his face is very close and his hands are on Jack and if Jack fractures this moment, there's nothing in Ianto's kit that's going to mend it.

Ianto breathes in sharply, then when he lets it out again it's hot and damp against Jack's upper lip, because Ianto's kissing him properly this time, covering Jack's mouth, and his lower lip is smooth and slick when Jack brushes his tongue over it. It makes Ianto push closer, and a thrill of victory flare in Jack's chest, and he lets go, confined by Ianto's hands holding his head, his neck; Ianto's mouth licking and opening his.

When Ianto draws back again they're both breathing harder; or maybe it's just that they're still so close that Jack can feel it, hear the rush of air scrape out of their throats. Ianto's thumbs _hush_ against the hair in front of Jack's ears, and his pupils are wide and dark when he meets Jack's eyes. He's got that determined look again. Jack still likes it.

Ianto takes a breath like he's preparing to speak, and he alters his stance a little; easing his weight off one leg leans him more significantly against Jack. The edge of the bench presses into Jack's lower back, the hard zipper of Ianto's jeans presses against Jack's front. He feels heat flowing to his cock in response to that pressure; feels his skin prickle under the bandages as the hair on his arms tries to lift.

Ianto swallows audibly. Jack watches Ianto's mouth press closed and then open. "Well," Ianto says, echoing Jack's earlier words, voice low and thick. "Shall I show you what else I can do?"

He doesn't so much sink to his knees as dismantle his stance awkwardly downwards; stiffness of battered muscles constricting any attempt at grace. He's clearly managing it, though, shuffling until his knees are in the most comfortable condition they can be, and Jack's half-slouch against the bench means that Ianto doesn't need to put his upper body through any contortions with what he's got in mind.

Which has become quite obvious, if it wasn't already. He lays his hands flat and warm on the front of Jack's thighs, then rubs them up and down consideringly, gaze fixed straight ahead, as if contemplating the mechanics of Jack's trouser fastenings. Jack weighs up the merits of offering another appropriate suggestion, but is ultimately rewarded for keeping his mouth shut when Ianto undoes his button, and zipper, and reaches into the flap of his shorts to coax Jack's cock out.

It's half-hard already, thickening when Ianto strokes it, bobbing a little with increased stiffness when Ianto lets go for a moment to change his grip. Jack sucks in a sharp breath when a tighter stroke pulls his foreskin back, Ianto's breath hitting the exposed head; he doesn't have a chance to exhale before it's Ianto's tongue instead, then lips and mouth and _oh, gods_, an exploratory wet caress that tightens the muscles of Jack's thighs, makes his arms strain against the restriction.

Ianto pulls off again, stroking his spit over Jack's shaft, coaxing a little more hardness, a little more length, until Jack's exposed and desperate. Ianto's mouth then is a like a balm on the inflamed nerves of his cock.

Jack's chest swells and the bandage saws the back of his neck; his left fist clenches the corner of the sling and the spoon digs into his inner arm as he reflexively tries to bend it. Ianto doesn't look up no matter how much Jack wills him to; eyes closed as he concentrates on sliding his mouth over Jack's cock, lips meeting the edge of his fist on every downstroke.

Jack's hips rock forward and back in counterpoint; he feels the muscles in his legs twitch with the threat of cramp as he stops the movement going any further; and Ianto's fluffy, tousled hair is tempting Jack to just grab it, move his head instead, but the splint stops the possibility. The bandage restricts his fist when he tightens his right hand on nothing, his fingers feeling thick and swollen.

He moans when Ianto speeds up, squirms against the bench, and the skin of his lower back feels like its been tenderised by sweat when the formica corner grinds his shirt against it. He's flushed with sweat all over and every item of clothing is a constriction; he almost laughs to think he'd fantasised that the first thing he'd do with Ianto would be to _undress him_.

Dissimilar to fantasy or not, it's _perfect_, and Jack doesn't want it to end, his senses wrapped up in the pressure of Ianto's attention, and the unavoidable sensory input of the bindings constricting his arms only serving to speed the ending; he wonders if he could convince Ianto to wrap his _cock_―

Ianto's hand stays firm when Jack comes, not allowing the bucking of Jack's hips to push his cock any further into his mouth, but not pulling off either. He doesn't swallow, but doesn't let any spill, either; when Jack's finally shaking with release instead of tension, Ianto hauls himself up with a levering hand on the bench, then goes and spits into the sink. He rinses his mouth, and by the time he's turned back to Jack, Jack's panting has eased a notch.

"I suppose they gave you a certificate for that," Jack says when he has the breath to.

Ianto's mouth twitches―and its going to be a good long while before Jack can look at it without feeling a bit dizzy, especially when it's still wet and pink like that―and he sidles back up to Jack.

"Inappropriate, sir," he says, and guides Jack's swollen fingers to the front of his trousers, rubs Jack's bandaged palm against his cock. This time, he doesn't look away.

* * *

Jack loses time in his office while Ianto finds a gurney, gets the body down to cold storage. He knows what Ianto's doing, but he tries not to think about it, tries to think of nothing. Look at nothing. Breathe nothing.

Ianto reappears looking sombre, like an undertaker in his dark suit and solemn, tight expression. He makes Jack stand up, then shucks Jack's coat from his shoulders, and his gun holster from his side. Jack feels like an Egyptian corpse, vital organs being removed to be kept in sacred urns. Ianto's already done the bandage thing, though.

"Downstairs," Ianto instructs, hands on the backs of Jack's shoulders. "Shower."

Jack's clothes smell like a traffic jam, he doesn't realise just how much until he pulls his tee-shirt over his head with aching arms and gets a faceful of exhaust-steeped cotton. He sheds the rest of his clothes hurriedly, breathing heavily through his mouth, ignoring the clank of belt buckle against the bare floor, the heavy wool of his trousers against the tender soles of his feet.

The TARDIS had steam showers. Jack was used to sonic showers himself; the Doctor had been unmoved when Jack smugly dropped that in conversation, so he'd tried another tack, expressed surprise that the Doctor's 21st century earth fetish didn't extend to a proper flood of H2o. Apparently steam showers were as close as he could get, with only a few bodies providing recyclable liquids.

The water drums down against Jack's skull, its chalky chemicals creeping into his open mouth, the burn of chlorine and oily taint of hydrocarbons, faint creep of iron like a bitten lip. He doesn't have the energy to spit it out again.

When he steps out, the rim of the shower against the arch of his foot is familiar yet distant, the rough pill of his towel like it's chafing someone else's skin. The mirrored door of the medicine cabinet is obscured with a film of condensation, but the colour it reflects is still too solid to be ghostly.

The floor's no longer strewn with discarded clothes when Jack re-emerges into his room; three steps naked to the bed and he closes his eyes, feeling the surrounding weight of the Hub, and all the world around it, press down.

He's not sure how long it's been when the bed moves again, jostling his otherwise motionless body and drawing it down towards a new weight. Jack's eyes crack open, and the dim light in the room makes Ianto look like he's in a black and white film. Maybe a mobster one, with that pinstriped suit. Jack almost expects him to flicker as the reel nears its end.

Ianto puts his hand on Jack's bare thigh, just above his knee. "What can I do?" he murmurs.

Jack huffs something that's nearly a laugh, rolls his eyes, closes them. It's obviously not enough to send Ianto off; his hand strokes Jack's skin, steady and warm. The tail of Ianto's jacket brushes Jack's side.

The room is quiet, its acoustics deadened by the layers of time crammed into it, years of Jack waiting in the dark, moments like this stretched interminably. The weight pressing down on him shifts to his throat, and he wills it to swell, to suffocate again, to splice another death in, to encroach that _waiting_ with another moment of nothingness.

He chokes. This is all ridiculous, really. It's one big farce; Torchwood, waiting, the 21st century. He'll mock the Doctor for this, for his ridiculous fondness for this era, and Jack will only talk in airy terms of his interim lodgings as places that seduced his guests the moment they stepped into them; he'll not talk about pockets of dank space underground that made his impervious body feel more parasitic than anything. In fact, he should just tumble Ianto into bed now, make more stories he can _tell_, instead of languishing in this misery.

He doesn't move, though. Ianto's weight lifts from the bed, and Jack's flooded with gratitude when instead of hearing the sound of Ianto's shoes on the ladder, he hears the soft whisper of silk and wool and cotton. Jack doesn't have to open his eyes to know that Ianto's undressing, he's learned that sound by now.

The bed dips again, closer to the foot, and Jack's drawn a little out of his fugue by embarrassment, of all things; Ianto kneeling naked on his bed and Jack's no where near aroused. He doesn't dare open his eyes, in case Ianto is.

Ianto's touch, when it comes, is a grip of his hand under Jack's knee. It should be startling, but Jack's body is immovable. Well, by him at least; it stays heavy and slack when Ianto lifts, folding Jack's knee up. His other hand clasps the top of Jack's foot and he settles it flat against the bed, alongside Jack's other knee.

The bed rocks and creaks, and Ianto's knees brush against Jack's side as he shifts his position, lifting up Jack's opposing arm and stretching it out at a right angle to Jack's chest. Each point of contact still flares in Jack's awareness, and then Ianto's not just touching isolated parts but moving his whole body, one hand cradling Jack's neck, the other pushing his upraised knee and tilting him with a minimum of fuss onto his side.

Hand under his knee again, Ianto pulls the leg up further, jutting out from Jack's hip, knee braced on the edge of the bed, and then moves Jack's other arm to rest the hand palm down on the bed in front of Jack's face. Jack's still limp, helplessly immobile, but the manipulated limbs brace him; it's _comfortable_. The ache in his chest has eased.

There can hardly be room left on the bed for Ianto but he manages it, chest pressed against Jack's back, his hairy legs tickling the backs of Jack's thighs. Jack feels Ianto's arm fold upwards, head resting on upper arm. Ianto's other hand lands on Jack's ribs, strokes down his flank and thigh. Repeats the movement.

The touch spreads warmth, Ianto alternating the stroke with a drag of his knuckles up the side of Jack's thigh, scoring the muscle and unravelling the cold that's seized his bones. Jack keeps his eyes closed and it's impossible not to focus entirely on Ianto's presence then, not just the movement of his hand but the damp warmth of Ianto's mouth at the base of Jack's neck, the tickle of his chest hair between Jack's shoulders, his soft, relaxed belly pressed to Jack's curled back. He's not sure when it happened, but their breathing has settled in time, a slow, deep rhythm that matches the pace of Ianto's caress. Jack feels himself relax into his body, deeply comfortable, awareness consumed with each sensation, heart and breath and brain looping it all through and through.

As if aware of Jack's thoughts, the meditative rhythm of Ianto's breathing hitches minutely; and a shiver of new sensation rolls through Jack's body when Ianto inhales then presses his open mouth to the angle of Jack's shoulder. Jack huffs an exhale, and on the next stroke of his hand Ianto widens his sweep, skimming up over Jack's buttock then down over it again, then between Jack's legs so the next up-stroke comes between his buttocks, fingers dragging lightly over sensitive skin.

The bed creaks a little as Ianto shifts, and his resettling maps new territories of heat against Jack's back; if anything, the spreading warmth relaxes Jack further, rather than arousing him to tension. Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's fantastic, in fact; Jack doesn't think he could open his eyes or rouse himself to move if he tried. And Ianto―clever, warm, necessary Ianto―has had the foresight to not leave Jack bereft in bed while he gets supplies; his fingers are already slippery when he rubs then over Jack's arsehole, and when he pushes two inside it's effortless.

Ianto mouths against Jack's shoulder; his fingers flex and curl in Jack's arse, from knuckle to fingertip massaging the inside of Jack's body, as if the stimulation is just a variation on Ianto's previous touches. It's not _foreplay_ as they're used to it, and Jack's cock's only half-hard and not even touched, but the waves of heat rolling through his body ebb and flow with the movement of Ianto's fingers. Jack's not even sure there's an orgasm in sight and he _relishes_ it, the thought of this continuing perpetually.

It's better, though, when Ianto uses his knee to nudge Jack's legs into a wider sprawl, then presses his cock in to Jack's arse. It's full and tight and _perfect_, and the first firm push sends a tremble deep in Jack's chest that doesn't move his otherwise lax body, but forces a moan into his throat. Ianto's fingers dig into Jack's hip, and he tongues Jack's skin in fierce strokes before gentling again, lipping and licking; Jack can feel the tension coiled tightly in the body behind him and it's solid reassurance, the most real thing in the soft, dark world he's swaddled in.

Ianto runs his hand from Jack's hip down over his buttock, grip tightening to spread him open as Ianto pushes his cock in deeper on his forward stroke, then continuing to span his the touch down Jack's thigh. He clasps under Jack's knee, lifts it at a more acute angle to Jack's chest, and bends his own leg up behind to brace his knee on the edge of the bed, folding them both into position.

They're both breathing harder now, the swell of Ianto's chest pressing him more insistently against Jack's back. Jack's body rocks with Ianto's steady, round-edged thrusts, and Ianto eases his lower arm under Jack's head, the damp, soft flesh of his upper arm perfect for the curve of Jack's neck. He bends his elbow, clasping the ball of Jack's shoulder and Jack feels his grip tighten on knee and shoulder at once; Ianto's knee forces his legs wider again and the hold gives Ianto more resistance to thrust against.

The intensified friction makes Jack suck in a gasp that he huffs out unevenly against the tender flesh on the inside of Ianto's forearm. When Jack firms his lips and kisses the damp skin, Ianto moans, dragging the flat of his teeth against Jack's shoulder, kissing the side of Jack's neck fervently, open-mouthed .

Ianto relinquishes his grip on Jack's knee, and Jack flexes his thigh muscles, bracing it himself as Ianto slides his hand up the inside of Jack's thigh. His hand cups over Jack's cock and balls; not shrunk up against him any more, definitely interested in the proceedings, though in a lazy sort of way. Ianto cups his balls warmly, kneading lightly, then his touch moves to Jack's cock, fingers massaging, playing with the sheath of Jack's foreskin.

Jack shudders, pushing his hips back for the first time; mainly to move his cock more Ianto's grip as it starts to stiffen in earnest, an automatic impulse that Ianto responds to with a jolt of a thrust. The slow burn of Ianto's cock stretching and stroking his arse spreads in Jack's belly, meeting the liquid heat of Ianto's glove of a grip around his cock, and suddenly Jack can't keep still, squirming and rocking, lever of his folded leg letting him push back against Ianto with more power. Ianto's touch on his cock remains consistent, though; fist squeezing gently, alternating pressure with his fingers, and he just tugs it when Jack tries to force more friction, which, frankly, doesn't deter him in the least.

He grinds his head against Ianto's pillowing arm, then moves his own arms, at last―they feel laden with inertia, all sensation converging on his arse and cock―and he grips the arm crossing the base of his throat, digs his fingers in. His lips brush the skin of Ianto's forearm, damp from his panting breath, and Jack wants to bite, or at least _taste_, but he can't concentrate enough; even though the feel of Ianto sucking and chewing at his shoulder is making his mouth water.

Ianto drives forward and gives a pull of Jack's cock, tight grip shifting from the base and dragging to the top; it makes Jack writhe, pinned. Ianto doesn't relent; his hard cock keeping a relentless rhythm, and he rubs his thumb over the tight, smooth skin of Jack's cockhead, spreading the seeping liquid against it. Jack sucks in a breath sharply and stops breathing at all when Ianto strokes the edge of his thumb into the slit at the tip of Jack's cock. He saws it back and forth minutely, but it's enough; the sensation is like an electrical charge sent through Jack's cock, sparking his orgasm. His body seizes helplessly, arse clamping around the intrusion of Ianto's cock, and the muscles in his legs, his chest and back tightening as his come begins to spill over Ianto's fingers. Ianto rubs it back into his cock, the wet easing the intensity of the stimulation as Ianto continues to massage and milk him through it.

Jack's making noise; his throat hurts from it, helpless, choked sounds of release. Ianto finds where they're coming from; he angles his arm down across Jack's chest and pushes the heel of his palm against Jack's breastbone.

**Author's Note:**

> http://hope.dreamwidth.org/1619620.html  
> http://angstslashhope.livejournal.com/1599957.html


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